


The Gunner's Dream

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Series: My SteveBucky Mixtape [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Binge Drinking, Body Horror, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Dark Steve Rogers, Depression, Extreme Body Horror, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Description of literally all violent acts, I want to give literally every warning I can, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Suicide, and COMEDY, because I'm like that - Freeform, bored Bucky fucks with everyone, but it's still has as a hell of a lot of angst, except it's not, in the way that they've absolutely fucked with his mind, not inherently, this is a bit of a mind fuck, this it meant to hit hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: Steve returns from war, broken and tired. His teammates are gone, and so his mother. Except, in an act of fate, his best friend starts to appear…Then he wakes up.(i.e. Steve’s attempts to return the stones shift the future into something much, much worse.)[The Gunner's Dream - Pink Floyd]





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my creative writing diploma as the first chapter of a book. I do have an idea where it would go but I also have like 8 WIPS so for now this will be a one shot (with a small preface). Either way, I'm looking forward to you all seeing it! I'm not expecting much because, well, this fandom is dead but I'm still here! So there's that...
> 
> Enjoy!  
-fouryearslater

“Captain, it’s time.”

“-”

“It’s okay. We’ll make it okay. You know that, right?”

“-”

“You’ll be okay. We’ll make you okay.”

“-”

“We’ll always make it okay.”


	2. It Only Takes A Week To Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologise for any errors. Although this has been heavily edited and proofread, it originally contained non-marvel characters so last minute changes had to be made and weren't checked.
> 
> EDIT: this has now been checked! Can't say it's perfect but I had to go through and re-read it, in hopes that I can continue this in the near future when the rest of my WIPs make some more progress.

**Day 1: Monday**

Steve walks into his apartment with an inexplicable vacancy in his chest. The door is scratched beyond repair, rough under his calloused palm; it’s barely holding onto the hinges, sending plumes of dust into the bare space. The emptiness reminds him of the ice, advancing slowly, creeping over him until he can barely focus. There’s a moment where he stops, lost in his own head, dragged out only by the distant shout of a fighting couple. They’re on the floor above, he can hear it, and he worries for a second; he has trouble enough sleeping already, never mind with a rowdy couple above him. He puts it out of mind. The more he thinks about not sleeping, the more likely is to come true.

When he looks at the apartment again, it’s with detached curiosity. It’s bare. And old. And the windows are unaccountably covered in year-old newspapers. Either this was a hideout, Steve thinks, or the old tenants were just that broke.

God, no wonder this place was cheap.

Sighing, Steve lets his bag slip off his shoulder and onto the floor, another cloud of dust choking his already tight lungs.

Either way, for a Manhattan apartment, he can’t fault it. It’s nice. Really. Not that his discharge packet will let him stay for more than a month, surrounded by these fascinatingly beige walls and creaky floorboards. For now, though, it has all the amenities he could need: a fridge, toilet, mattress and table. A shower, he thinks. And a cooker he’s sure doesn’t work. It’s enough to last him through the month, anyway. What he’ll do after that, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought much about it.

Much.

For a moment, he thinks that the silence might discomfit him. Instead it wraps around him, warm like a blanket in the wintertime. There’s nothing to convolute his thoughts. Nor is there anything to convolute his view. The apartment, as bare as it is, is easily defensible: two points of entry, sightlines from all corners of the room. That’s a plus too, he guesses.

He does have some things he could put in here: his mother’s armchair, a few knick-knacks. All in storage right now. His mother’s stuff, that is. And his, if you wanted to look at it that way, but it had been hers first.

He misses her. More than he misses anything else.

She died. He doesn’t like saying it. It was during his last tour. Meant she never saw him come home. Never saw that the rest of his squad didn’t. But, well, he’s home now, isn’t he? And look at him, bright as ever, in his new apartment. Getting on with things. As he should be.

He still won’t get her stuff. He’ll do it later.

Or never.

He doesn’t let the grief hit him. Instead, he drops to the floor underneath the window, where the sun shines bright through the old-fashioned sills, creating a tic-tac-toe board on the floorboards. He can feel the sadness creeping up on him, ready to take control, but he's sick of the puppeteering. So he doesn't let it catch him. Just relishes in the empty feeling of nothingness, concentrating on the gentle breeze and the beating sun. A false sense of peace.

Time passes from there sluggishly but surely. He revels in the emptiness, stoically trapping himself behind the walls of his defences. Hours once wasted on action are spent in nothingness, an inescapable limbo. He doesn’t mind the silence for as long as he doesn’t remember it.

Forgetting is a hell of a lot better than anything else right now.

When time next slips away, he finds himself on his bed. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but fall asleep.

**Day 2: Tuesday**

It’s quiet…

…too quiet.

It’s coming.

Closer and closer.

It’s coming.

He hears it. So loud is might as well be in his ear.

It’s coming.

Then

(What happened between then and now?)

Steve screams,

Glass shatters,

He screams louder, piercing like a siren,

The tires have hit something.

They squeal louder than he can scream

and the jeep flips, tumbling over and over and over.

He reaches out but he can’t,

He can’t.

They’re rolling.

A hand grabs Steve’s arm.

(Who's was it again? That face...the face staring at him, eyes wide and lost to the pain.)

The door slices through it.

(I remember.)

(I don't want to. But I can see it. The ice blue, flecked with red.)

“BUCKY!”

The screams are drowned in blood.

Somehow, he’s still alive.

Steve scrambles out the side of the truck and is struck by sudden disorientation:

he’s climbing upwards.

The shattered glass is embedded in Maria’s neck.

Carol’s head has a dent in it, like it’s been struck with a hammer.

Clint must have been thrown out of the jeep.

It’s on top of him.

He frantically feels for the pulse,

but there’s blood oozing, pouring like water down ashen skin.

It’s too late.

But there’s one more.

Just one more.

One more that isn’t him.

“BUCKY!” He screams, hoping for something, anything. A murmur, a shout, a scream.

He doesn't get anything.

But it doesn't matter. He'll always find him.

He's finally there. He pulls him up through the door. Him, his best friend, his…

His arm is torn. There’s blood pooling.

Steve’s hands are sticky with red.

There’s a protruding bone, sticking out of the flesh like a prideful mast.

But he’s breathing.

He’s breathing.

He has to get them out of here.

He slings him over his shoulder, the weight crushing.

He won’t make it back to base.

Not like this.

“Steve.”

It’s barely a whisper, a taunt in the silence.

But the words are like kindling, lighting a fire under him.

He’s alive.

Oh god, he’s alive.

They won’t make it back to base.

There’s blood

On his back. It’s

Coming from Bucky’s arm.

It looks infected. The colour is all

Wrong.

He runs.

More spi-

Lls, like a gushin

G water-

Fall.

Bla-

Ck taints his ski-

N, a bloo-

Dy painting on

A wrec-

Ked canvas.

It’s wr-

Ong, so

Wrong.

And they’-

Re not going t-

O make it

Back.

Inevitably, Bucky’s last words are his name.

There’s a poetry to that.

Steve wishes he would wake up gasping. He wishes the nightmares weren’t these slow recollections of dread. There’s no jolt, no scream. Only him, curled into an impenetrable ball, childishly hiding from his fear.

“Steve.”

Now he wants to scream. He’s woken up yet still the dream haunts him, persists like a rash he can’t reach, tearing at his brain with no hope of release. He curls tighter; so tight, he feels his muscles stretch beyond their limits. He imagines himself ripping apart, falling to the floor like ribbons, blown away by the wind.

He knows, distantly, that he probably shouldn’t be so macabre.

“Steve!” Can’t it just-

Suddenly, he’s aware of another presence in the room. It’s like his senses dance, lighting up all at once, producing an atavistic fear that’s been left untouched since the army. In a second, he’s jumped to his feet, bare as the day he was born. His gun, kept under his pillow (when did he put it there?), is steady in his hand, aimed at the exact point he knows will mean a death sentence.

A fear tactic.

He doesn’t know whether he has it in him to kill anyone.

He almost laughs. Who’s he kidding? Whatever happened over there, his head is now screwed. He’s probably a psychopath. But are psychopaths aware of that? Do they realise they don’t feel things? Does he feel things? What would happen if he pulled the trigger now? His finger twitches. It would only take one contraction, just a muscle movement.

“Woah, no need for that, pal.” Steve finally examines the details, his bloodshot eyes hitting areas in order of importance.

Brown hair, a world different to Steve’s bright blonde.

Blue eyes, a shade lighter than his.

Pale skin to Steve’s ghost-like white.

A-

“I’ve gone insane.”

“Don’t think you have.”

“You’re _dead_.”

“Why would I be here if I was dead?”

Steve takes a moment to digest, takes the situation into account. And then, with a withered determination, he tries, “Bucky?”

“Who else would it be?” Bucky says, _like it’s obvious_. Like he’s not fucking dead. And Steve knows he’s dead. _He knows._

“No. You’re _dead_. Am I going insane? I’m going insane.” His aim drops; there’s no need to aim at something that doesn’t exist. He flings the gun onto the bed, struck suddenly by a vulnerability that stems from his feet and clambers up his body. Struggling to maintain his composure, he drags a hand through his hair and breathes in a toxically large breath. “You’re not real,” he reiterates, for his own sake of mind.

“I am. It’s just, well, it’s not what you think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Steve snaps.

“I’m not a hallucination, if that’s what you think.”

“You’re _dead_.”

“I’m not.” Bucky’s eyes soften and a small smile creeps up his lips. “Promise.” Sincerity bleeds from his words like an open wound. Steve’s paranoia scratches and burns but he focuses, pushing past the wall and examining the dead man’s eyes for a lie. Of course, he should have known, there’s none there.

Although, if this is all in Steve’s mind, of course it would feel real.

Tentatively, almost reflexively, Steve reaches out, desperate for the reality of mass under his hand. Bucky steps back. “Stop. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t,” Bucky repeats. “You just can’t.”

“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”

“If I was a hallucination, your brain would make it feel like you’re touching me! God, Steve,” Bucky sighs exasperatedly. “How are you always this stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn,” Steve retorts reflexively. “And why can’t I touch you then?”

“You just can’t.”

“Great. That really explains a lot. Thanks for that.” Cheeks burning with his unrelenting temper, Steve goes to leave the room, expecting Bucky to follow. Instead, he looks down, realises his state and flushes with embarrassment. Scuttling to the dresser, he hurries to change before storming into the kitchen area, a trail of indignation in his wake. Bucky watches him carefully, trailing him like a lion awaiting its prey. He even has the hair for it, Steve thinks with an unamused laugh. Longer than it’s ever been before, hanging limply over his face. Steve doesn’t understand a lot of things, but this most of all.

He’s never seen this Bucky before.

It’s the same face. The same voice. Yet all the details are wrong. His face has wrinkles it never did before; his eyebrows are just a little overgrown. And the damn _hair_-

Steve tries to continue on with his day, forcefully blinking away the visage of his dead best friend in his periphery. His voice clambers for recognition, desperate to have one final conversation with Bucky whilst he still can, but he understands that if he…_accepts_ this, then it really will mark the dawning of his insanity.

His restraint doesn’t matter, in the end, because Bucky seems to have an unrelenting propensity for commenting on his _every move_. It’s a ‘don’t go there, Steve’ or a ‘don’t do that, Steve’. He’d powered through the first time, when he’d almost spilt hot coffee over his hand. But really, by the time he was getting warnings as he fiddled with his (admittedly broken) laptop charger, he was ready to scream. Yes, it was dangerous, _yes_ that was the live wire sticking out of the plastic casing, _YES_ that’s not safe but _I need to look something up, okay?_

Well, not really. There’s no _need_. But he wants to, and he has to use the damn laptop because he hasn’t upgraded his phone from his old 2000s brick. He wants to because he needs to know what the hell is going on. So he types in hallucinations. Because, really, if this isn’t a hallucination, Steve thinks this situation might be a whole lot worse.

The light hurts his eyes but he continues to scroll down Google, eyes catching on one of the first websites he finds. Clicking on it, he scrolls down until he finds something of use.

_‘Hallucinations can also occur as a result of extreme tiredness or recent bereavement’._

That’s really all he needs to know. Steve can happily tick both those boxes. The hallucinations are supposed to be sporadic and short-lived. So, when he wakes up, he’ll be alone again.

Surely.

**Day 3: Wednesday**

Steve wakes up with the crushing weight of hope on his chest. With his night nightmare free (a first, since coming home), he feels a comfort in the darkness that he hasn’t before. Not that it’s really all that dark. Even with the frail bedroom curtains drawn, the sun is bright enough that it shines through the thin material, the translucent specks like stardust. Steve smiles shyly into the darkness. A long-forgotten optimism blooms in his chest, reminding him of a careless childhood he'd left behind the moment he'd shot his gun. He'd forgotten beauty, forgotten to look at the small things. The beads of light, the blades of grass, the goddamn complexity of the city he's lived in since he was born.

Any thoughts of the day before are lost in the haze of the morning light. But they can't be held off forever. Even the knowledge that yesterday had happened is enough to make his hackles rise and fists clench. Steve is nothing if not stubborn and if he has to punch his way through this round of trauma, he’s more than happy to. Steve is good at punching. He’s not so good at anything else.

He kindles the hope like a dying fire and swings his legs over the side of the bed, stretching upwards and relishing in the quiet _click _of his back. The hope is soon lost. Any sort of idealistic dream that yesterday had been a fever dream is gone when he walks out of the bathroom, roughly scrubbing his hair with a towel. Through the door he sees Bucky, his hand clutched loosely around a copy of The Art of War, flipping through the pages with a disregard for the thin pages and smudgeable ink. Steve baulks before rushing to the neat line of books on the ground. There’s a gap where the book once was.

“How did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“The book.”

“Well, I went to your neat little row of books and picked one up, like every other human on this earth. And then I decided to sit on the couch and read it. You going to ask how I can read next?” Steve’s mood sours; now is no time for games.

“You’re not real. Ergo, you can’t move things.”

“Like I’ve already said, pal, that’s not what’s happening.”

“You’re dead!”

“_Was_ dead.”

“I’m done!” Steve announces brashly. “I’m actually done. I’m going out,” Steve spits and stalks towards the door, grabbing his jacket and keys on the way.

“Where are you going?!” Bucky calls after him.

“None of your business!” Steve screams like a teenager slamming their bedroom door. Through gritted teeth, Steve pushes out a loud breath and tries to level himself again. It doesn’t work, not really. Either way, after enough wandering of Manhattan, he decides he knows where to go to sort this whole debacle out.

Church.

In times like these, he really needs it. He’s been raised a Catholic by a devout mother who even throughout the depths of poverty, never left her faith behind. And, even if Steve isn’t nearly as devout, there’s a comfort in church: a familiarity. And when something as mad as this is happening, the familiarity is warranted.

He doesn’t even realise he’s moved until he’s there, staring up at the city church: all large windows in place of towering spires. Still, as he pushes open the creaky door, he remembers what made this feel so much like a church. Despite the small space they had to work with, the original designers clearly had Catholicism in mind. With large columns and golden accents, it’s undeniable that faith has been poured into each and every design. Steve feels like he’s stepping back into his childhood.

“Never liked churches much.”

“Holy crap!” Steve screams, hand over his heart, his heart racing.

_“Boo!”_

_“Oh my god, Bucky. Don’t do that! I literally have a gun in my hands.”_

_“You wouldn’t shoot me.”_

_“I would if I didn’t know it was you!”_

_It’s a cruel precursor._

_Gunshots ring out and his team suddenly have him thrown to the ground. The ringing is louder, blinding him. Steve pants, his heart beating against the sand like a war drum._

_Du-dum._

_Du-dum._

_Bang._

Steve returns to reality on a pew, Bucky’s concerned gaze boring into him. His head snaps up, eyes darting to the other few people in the room. Are they witnesses to his madness? Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, his ankle resting on his leg and his arm outstretched across the back of the pew. He looks at home, no matter what he claims. It’s no surprise, really, Bucky had been raised just as Catholic as Steve, even if it stuck less.

Suddenly, he finds himself shaking. “You’re not here,” he mutters: a baseless reassurance. It’s a distraction, at least, from the memories that burn his mind. If he can just keep speaking, he won’t have to remember. He won’t have to-

He doesn’t know whether the words are meant for him or Bucky; he doesn’t quite know where the distinguishing line is anymore. Bucky opens his mouth and Steve can’t stand it. He stands on shaky legs and all but runs to the pastor, the same man that has been the head of the parish since Steve was young. “I’m sorry for the interruption, father, but I was hoping to speak to you.”

“Of course,” the pastor replies, age lines crinkling his cheeks, “what is it you wish to discuss?”

“I-“ Steve blanches and stops. He doesn’t want to sound insane, nor does he want to be so convicted in his lies that he begins to believe them. He doesn’t want to be sent away. And, really, he’s not in the mood for an exorcism either.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

Still, stubbornness urges him onwards. He’s sure, anyway, that the pastor has heard worse. He’s been in a confession box, anyway, he _must _have heard worse. “Well, spit it out, pal.” For a second, Steve thinks it’s the pastor speaking. But, well, of course it isn’t. Instead, Bucky stands next to him, arms folded across his broad chest, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. Closing his eyes, he wills himself to breathe. The pastor is staring at him now, _oh god he’s staring_. He has to speak. He just has to say something. Oh god-

“I’ve been seeing my best friend.” The pastor’s eyebrows furrow and Steve rushes to elaborate. “I mean, I’ve been seeing my _dead_ best friend. He- he died on my last tour. But he follows me. Like a ghost.”

Steve has a sudden thought, incomprehensibly unconnected to the words coming out of his mouth. Why Bucky? Why not his mother? They died within a week of each other; the two most important people in his life, gone in an instant. Just like that. But, really, if he had to save one of them, _if he could_, it would be his mother. It would have to be. It makes no sense that his head would choose Bucky-

“Not a ghost!” Bucky announces, looking more offended than Steve would have thought. Steve ignores him.

“I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

“Ooh, he’s got that face on.” Steve’s eyes dart to the side and his mouth opens to ask, “what face?”, but in an attempt at sanity, he returns his attention to the pastor. He’d really rather not be sent to a mental asylum. Though he’s sure they don’t do that anymore. Right?

“Is he with us now?” Steve bites down on his lip, his mind blank. What’s he supposed to say? _Oh yeah, my dead best friend is here spewing crap, you wanna hear what he has to say?_

“Come on, Steve, tell him. Tell him I’m here.”

“Y-yes. He’s here.” The pastor looks worried for a moment, like he’s debating whether to dismiss this or fix it. It all changes in a moment. Bucky reaches out, his hand resting on the pastor’s arm like a poor mimicry of a comfort.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, sickeningly sweet, “he’s not in the best place right now. Mentally. _I’m_ his best friend. I’m fine. He’s only just returned from service and, well, he’s not doing his best.”

“Oh, dear Lord! I didn’t see you there,” the pastor exclaims, holding a hand over his heart. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding. But my prayers are with you. Do you still need assistance?” The pastor asks, his head set just slightly to the side as he waits for a response. Steve stares. His eyes dart to Bucky, who’s arm is still resolutely waiting on the pastor’s arm. Hope blooms in his chest. The pastor…the pastor can see Bucky! He wants to speak, to double-check, but his lips are sewn. Bucky’s eyes are boring into Steve, an expectant look in his eyes and a smug smile on his lips. The exact smile he had every time he tricked Steve.

And Steve-

No, he can’t-

This is-

Steve leaves. He doesn’t realise it but his legs are taking him away. Bucky calls after him but he doesn’t look back. This is impossible. All of this is impossible. Bucky isn’t real! He died. He _died_. Steve saw it, felt it. He knew the moment Bucky’s chest stopped moving. He knew the moment it never would again.

This isn’t real.

None of this makes _sense!_

He tries to curl in on himself, his back hunching as he runs. He wants to hide behind a blanket, away from prying eyes and concerned stares. But the sun beats down relentlessly and he’s got nothing on but a t-shirt. It feels like the wind is battering him down. The noises of the city suffocate him; the trampling feet feel like the rhythmic beat of a war drum.

Steve is so lost in it all the noise that he doesn’t even notice Bucky running at him. All he hears is the sudden scream of an ambulance, clawing into his lungs and ripping them out.

He suddenly can't see the real world anymore.

“Bucky?”

“BUCKY!”

“Bucky, it’s okay. We’re nearly there.” It’s dark, his breath is gone and his muscles burn. It’s like a claw in his lungs, slowly ripping them from his chest. Bucky’s limp weight on his shoulder is crushing.

The camp isn’t in sight but the ambulance is, wailing for the victim it’s about to lose.

Steve feels like he’s dying.

Bucky is dying.

_Du-dum._

_Du-dum._

_Du-_

Bucky’s dead.

Steve doesn’t feel like he’s in the real world. Not yet. He doesn’t even know he’s shaking. Finally, he can reach for a breath; he grabs it viciously and inhales like it’s the last breath before he’s dunked back under. The memory haunts him in vicious circles. It cycles and cycles and cycles and-

“Steve, come on. Steve! You need to stay with me. Do you know where we are?” His vision still shakes at the edges but Bucky’s face is there and he’s-

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, it’s me, pal. You’re alright.”

“Sir! Sir! Are you alright?” There’s a hand on him now but it’s not Bucky’s. Bucky is still staring at him, eyebrows drawn together in worry. Weakly, Steve turns his head. There’s another man there, followed shortly by a woman. Their height difference is almost comical, as is their presence. The man crouches down, hand planted on Steve’s shoulder as he asks him to breathe. Steve complies, his eyes following the woman behind who’s fidgeting nervously, frizzy black hair curling around her head like a halo.

Steve inhales again, fighting against the current of anxiety. He suddenly feels all too aware of what’s happened. “It’s okay,” he croaks. “I’m okay.” Bucky’s not there anymore, like he knows for the first time that his presence isn’t wanted.

Because it isn’t.

Not really.

So…

He had a panic attack.

Okay, he needs to approach this carefully. Panic attacks aren’t common for him but the flashbacks are. Usually, the gym sorts a lot of his problems out but, well, that’s not an option right now, not whilst this exhaustion wracks his body. He needs to get home.

“Do you need any help?” The man asks, light brown hair falling over his freckled face.

“I- I need to get home,” Steve admits, the words an ode to the disaster this is. Usually, getting Steve to admit he needs help is like wrenching a molar out of someone’s mouth. Not that Steve knows what that feels like.

“Okay. We can do that. You feeling better?”

“Yes,” Steve lies, pretending the disappointment permeating through him is just a passing cloud. This isn’t a relapse into old habits, he tells himself. He’s doing fine. He is. He’s doing better than the rest of them. He’s got his life sorted out. He’s got an apartment. He’s moving on.

He is.

HE IS!

**Day 4: Thursday**

Steve goes to a group therapy session down at the VA every Thursday. It’s supposed to begin at midday but a lot of people are late, so it usually doesn’t start until half-past. The leader of the session, Tim, says it goods, means more people turn up if they have more time to debate whether to come or not. It helps that the people there feel that there’s a smaller chance of having to speak if the session is shorter. Steve understands that, he feels it too. In the two months he’s been back, Steve has only spoken once. Something had hit him hard when Tim, with his usual smile and childish presence (despite his military background) had said, “it used to be easier to come back from war. It took them so long in those boats. The wait gave them time to adjust. Now, and I’m sure you understand, you’re in a warzone and then the next minute you’re back home. It’s scary, unexpected.” After that, it had taken Steve all of five minutes before he’d stood to tell his own story, a weight he couldn’t begin to imagine lifting as he spoke: “I think the worst bit of all of this is that I’m still there, really. In my head, I mean. I’m still armed and looking for enemies, you know? And they’re not there.” It wasn’t much, a lot less than some other people’s stories, but it was a hell of a lot more than he’d ever said before. For the first time since he’d come home, he felt proud. It had felt like the beginning of a new chapter.

Today, when he sits on his chair, he feels further from pride than ever. There’s sweat on his temples, deep bruising under his eyes and a curse in his mind. A curse that pushes him to stand, that forces his lips open and wrenches the words from his lips. Feeling the weight of a thousand eyes, he murmurs “hi”, grateful when he gets only a quiet response. Tim nods encouragingly. Steve powers on. “I wanted to talk about…well, lately- “

“You really want to tell _them_?” Steve swallows a shout. Bucky’s standing right in front of him. The chairs are in rows, comforting in their uniformity, but somehow Bucky has squeezed between the rows and stood nose-to-nose with Steve. They’re not quite touching (never touching) but close enough that his presence is oppressive. There’s a moment where Steve is tempted to lean forward, just onto the balls of his feet, and let their bodies brush. A fear he can’t rescind holds him back. Steve breathes through it, ignoring the raging beat of his heart, and continues to talk. “I-I’ve been seeing things. My best friend. He died on my last tour.”

“Did I?”

“A-and,” he speaks louder, false bravado slipping through his fingers, “I’ve been seeing him everywhere. I know he’s not real- “

“Oh, not this again.”

“-but it feels like he is. And I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Steve hisses, aware of the stares. “He’s in front of me,” he admits aloud, head tilted up like a challenge. The words are a test: if he’s real, then everyone else will be able to see him. They’ll laugh, even if it’s laced with fear. Because the pastor saw him so surely someone can-

“Steve- “

“You idiot!” Bucky screams. “You absolute idiot. Don’t tell them I’m here!”

“What?” Steve gasps incredulously.

“You idiot. You weren’t…they weren’t supposed to know!”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Just…not them. Not here. They can’t know!”

“You’re making no sense!”

“I didn’t say you could fucking tell them!”

“WELL YOU DIDN’T SEEM TO HAVE A PROBLEM WITH IT BEFORE!” Steve screams into the silence, eyes wild like flames. “No. I need to- You’re not real. You’re not.” Tim starts forward, arm outstretched, but it’s too late; Steve’s nerves are a wildfire, neurons firing faster than he can act.

“I- I’m sorry,” he gaps before he flees.

**Day 5: Friday**

Steve wakes up in a cold sweat, distant nightmares already forgotten but their effects still plaguing his weak body. Still, he gets up (he always gets up). He doesn't shower, but he stands up. He doesn't eat, but he walks into the kitchen. He even looks in the fridge for a minute, enough to see it's practically empty. Sighing, he creates himself a short to do list: get to the grocery store and get the hell back.

But by the time Steve makes it the grocery store, he’s about to collapse. And by the time he’s made it back, small bag in hand, he might just be dead. The muted screams of violent noise around him are distant and ungraspable. The motions around him feel like a sea tide, uncontrollable and terrifying. He sticks his head above the water anyway, swimming to a shore he can’t see. Flashbacks blind him, visions of a life he doesn’t want chasing him. The apartment is like a safe haven, a rock in the middle of the waves, filled with silence.

Steve sits on the floor, just below the window, and waits for the worst. He ignores the signs of fever: the sweats, the hallucinations, the pain. He tries to ignore Bucky too.

Since yesterday…well, he knows it’s not real now. He’d known before. He had. He thinks. Faced with the truth now, though…it feels…it feels like he’s been faced with his own uselessness. He’s stared his insanity in the eye and lost. He’s let the waves drown him. Over

and over

and over

and over-

Bucky is sitting next to him. He’s silent, face cursed with worry. He won’t say why and Steve doesn’t have the guts to ask. He doesn’t want to talk to air, even if it has a shape. The grocery bag is strewn across the floor, gathering dust. He wonders for a moment how long he’s been sitting here.

Not long. He’s sure of it. He has to be. Or else what can he really be sure of?

He doesn’t have the heart to pick up the bag and put it away. It’s only really got a ramen or two in it. A block of cheese, he remembers, for reasons he doesn’t. He stares at it and silently debates his choices.

He’ll do it later.

He festers in his spot, unmoving. The stress of the morning’s ordeals fade into grey and he feels empty. He likes it, enough to not dispel it (though he’s not sure he can). The blank is like white noise, sending him into nothingness. The white noise is broken, though, as it inevitably always was going to be, when Bucky finally speaks up.

“You haven’t eaten in a while.”

Steve doesn’t want to answer a ghost but he can’t let an accusation past him. His hackles rise and he spits back “so what?”

“You need to eat, Steve.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not even real.” The words feel putrid now. Before, he could say them aloud with a modicum of doubt; he could still pretend that he was sane. No one else was there to prove Bucky didn’t exist. _The priest had talked to him for God’s sake! _Now he can’t even try to pretend. Everyone down at the VA had stared so intently, the tell-tale signals of pity in their gaze. And Steve had known then, without a doubt, that he was mad.

But…

What if they were looking at him like that because they _could_ see him?

It’s a possibility Steve has never dared to allow. No one had spoken. No had said _we can’t see him_. Hope blooms dangerously in Steve’s chest, tangled with an irredeemable naivety.

Bucky sighs. “You still think that?”

“No.” Steve blurts.

“Finally! I’d wonder when you’d come around.”

“No! No, I meant not no. Just…no. You’re not real. Oh god, get a grip, Rogers. He’s not real.”

“Oh, come on! We were getting somewhere! Look at me. I’m here.”

“You died. You’re not real. Argh! He’s not real. He doesn’t exist. He doesn’t.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Steve doesn’t reply. He can’t handle the contradiction his mind is now single-mindedly focused on. He can’t keep believing that Bucky is both real and imaginary. He can’t keep waiting for these two parts of him to tear his mind apart.

Bucky can’t be real. He can’t touch him and that _has_ to mean something. And those people had stared at him like he was crazy. He appears in places with a speed impossible to possess.

But Bucky _could _be real. The priest had seen him, _talked to him_. Steve has been told about PTSD (he’s been told he has it, but he usually elects to ignore that) so maybe it makes sense if he disassociates a little when Bucky appears in the room.

Excuses, excuses.

“If you really think I’m not real, you should go to a therapist, pal. Maybe the VA. There’s nothing stopping you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need to explain myself.”

“I think it’s a fair question.”

“You’re not real.”

“And _you’re_ not giving me an answer.”

“Well maybe I just don’t want anyone to know I’m an absolute nutcase, do I?!” Steve snaps. He’s felt fraught ever since Bucky’s return but this is the snapping point. The ribbon he’s clinging to tears in half and he’s

falling

falling

falling.

“You’re not real. You can’t be fucking real. I can’t tell them. You’re either not real and I’m fucking insane or you are real and you’re just an absolute dick! And you know what, I don’t want to know that my best friend, my _dead_ best friend, is a dick. So either get out or leave my mind in peace!”

The silence that descends is thick. The earlier sweat now rolls down his temples; his hair sticks to his head as his eyes shine dully, the lost glimmer fuelled to return by an incandescent anger that he can’t hold back. In that moment, there’s nothing he wants to do more than hit something; _he wants to be back in the army where he doesn’t have to make these goddamn _normal _choices anymore_.

The truth sets in.

This isn’t about Bucky. It’s about him. Steve Rogers, a control freak who can’t keep his sanity the moment he’s faced with the reality that is _normal life_. Because he’s no longer normal. He knows that. He hates himself for it. He’s a fraud, walking through these crowds, pretending he’s human when he isn’t.

He’s a soldier.

He thought himself lucky, once, to not be one of the guys who turned to addiction. He thought he was _better_ than them. Now, he realises, it’s a delusion. They knew from the beginning what was going to happen, and they found their solution.

Still, Steve doesn’t find him staring down a bottle. If only because he really doesn’t want to go back outside. He’s in his safe haven here, even with a perturbed intruder in his mind.

His mind can do whatever it wants, as long as he's not out there again. As long as he doesn’t have to see-

“Come on, Bucky, we’ll make it.

“Come on.

“We’ll do it.

“We will.”

Ends up his safe haven does nothing at all.

Of course, he should have known. He hasn’t slept for a reason.

But it’s not out there.

At least, in here, he doesn’t have to pretend.

**Day 6: Saturday**

He can’t move but he can’t stop. Sweat drips, settling in pools between his vertebrae. They stick out now. He hasn’t eaten since…when was it? Thursday? And he was skinny enough before that, the army muscle lost to malnutrition and insomnia. His cooking skills haven’t really allowed for anything better than takeaway pizza. His sleep schedule is no better. Between the paralysing fear of nightmares, the paranoia of attack as soon as he shuts his eyes, and the frankly lumpiest mattress he’s ever had the misfortune to lie on (and he’s had his fair share), sleep eludes him.

It has left his control in tatters. Insanity has gripped him and he’s long since given into its clutch. There’s certainly no chance of escaping it. It holds him even as he

falls

and falls

and falls (into the grip of something that isn't him. Something that controls him. He is its puppet, so lost he can't even find the strings.)

It doesn’t even stop the fear. Or the anxiety. It can’t stop the fever. Or Bucky. Nothing can stop Bucky. He’s been ranting all day, pacing across the floor, even cooking at mealtimes with ingredients Steve doesn’t remember buying. Steve still doesn’t eat. Instead he sits and stares, tempted to ask the neighbour below whether they can hear the footsteps.

The bag of groceries has been put away but Steve sure as hell didn’t do it. He doesn’t even know if he’s moved since yesterday. He’s certainly stiff enough for it. Only Bucky has moved. So, footsteps idea. Might work. He should really ask the neighbour.

He’ll do it later.

He’s swallowed an energy tablet at some point and he thinks he drank a coffee that Bucky gave him (does that mean he _did _move?). He hasn’t passed out on the floor yet so he certainly has some caffeine in his system. He feels like he’s finally catching up with Bucky, who has the relentless energy of any conjured spirit. Bucky doesn’t seem to need sleep anymore.

Another thing to add to the list.

Then again, maybe he just sleeps when Steve does.

“Get up.” Steve doesn’t move. “Steve, for god’s sake, get up.” Bucky waits, arms folded over his chest. “Steve!” He shouts louder, like Steve is an insubordinate child. The pacing has stopped; he can no longer hear the footsteps. There’s a moment of unsettling quiet permeating in the aftermath. “Get. Up.” Steve is despondent. Any fight he’d had was burned out of him overnight. He’s just tired. But he won’t sleep.

He can’t.

He has to keep an eye on Bucky anyway. If he watches him carefully enough, he thinks suddenly, he’ll find out the truth. He’s sure of it. The despondency still wastes his body away but his head follows Bucky now, eyes darting from side to side to keep focus on his periphery.

He’s always going to be ready for a fight.

He continues to watch. He’ll find out the truth. He’ll find it. He will. HE WILL!

He breathes in a deep, almost painful, breath.

“For fuck’s sake! Will you _TALK_ to me?!” Bucky bellows, his body vibrating. His anger is like a virus, infecting Bucky’s very nature. Steve doesn’t respond. Instead, he languorously rises to his feet, slower than you could have ever thought possible, and stares blankly at the space that Bucky’s visage has taken over. He can’t. "Oh god," Bucky whispers, "what have they done to you this time?"

Steve doesn't understand, so he doesn't respond.

He can’t.

At some point, a bottle of Jack made its way into the cupboard. Steve doesn’t even know anymore if he was the one to get it. He reaches for it anyway, clasping it in his hand, ready to give in and just

fall.

“Don’t.”

Steve grips the bottle harder, the spark of rebellion like the first glimpse of life in his empty vessel of a body. He spins on his feet and sends daggers at his enemy. With a challenge in his eye, he takes a swig. It burns. But he shouldn’t be surprised by that. He takes another anyway, hiding his wince behind the bottle.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m getting rid of you.”

“For the last time, _I’m real!_”

Steve doesn’t argue, for maybe the first time in his life. Instead, he takes another swig. Bucky stands helplessly, his hand outstretched like he’s going to make a grab for the bottle. But then he’d have to touch Steve, even if it were just a skim of the fingers. Steve revels in the power and drowns himself.

He keeps going until the bottle is empty.

**Day 7: Sunday**

Steve goes to church again on Sunday with the idea that he’ll talk to the pastor again. Instead, he runs in late, body shaking and legs like water, and is forced to sit down for the service before he can talk to him. Yesterday’s sweat still clings to him, clammy and thick. His hair is sticky with grease and his body smells closer to garbage than aftershave, even if he desperately spritzed some on before rushing out.

Frankly, he’s surprised he made it. He’s been a little…compromised, recently. The whole getting to places thing has been a little more difficult. But desperation is the best motivator and whether he thought he would or not, he’s made it. And now he sits, desperately scrambling for some false absolution in the back pew like it will give him back control over his life.

Of course, that’s not how these things work.

He doesn’t know the delirium he’s in until the pastor begins his sermon. The shivers now become body-wracking shakes, almost approaching a fit. The only people who can see him are the ushers in the back, who all look too scared to approach him; even in this state, he’s evidently an army man, dog tags clinking ominously as they dangle over the floor. So they don’t dare go near him, like they know he’s going to lash out.

He shakes alone.

He can barely focus. The pastor’s sermon is spoken behind a mile-thick wall of water. He only looks up as the first hymn starts and-

“Hey, pal! Listen to this!”

Bucky’s singing is atrocious but familiar.

It’s a hymn. One his mother loves.

“You’re not listening!”

Bucky starts to sing louder.

Steve laughs louder.

I miss him.

For the first time this week, Steve actually wishes Bucky were here.

Steve returns to himself when the song ends. He hadn’t even recognised it, not at first. Not without Bucky’s off-tune notes, or his mother’s gentle cadence. It doesn’t matter now, though. The sermon goes on. But Steve can’t listen; all he can hear is his own laughter. He’s sure he’s not laughing; he’s _sure_ it’s in his head. It’s like a taunt, anyway, repetitious and vile, spitting venom with its every peal.

The next hymn starts with the bang of a drum-

-and a gunshot rings out.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Steve. I can’t. I can’t breathe- “

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“It’s not! I killed him! Oh my god, I killed him.”

Steve returns to himself when the song ends. The sermon goes on. A joke is said, he thinks. The whole congregation is laughing; it booms, no matter how small the congregation is.

Bucky’s laugh was loud.

And it sounded like a walrus.

Steve loves it.

_?_

_I can’t-_

_It’s just there, on the edge._

_I just can’t-_

_Reach._

Steve returns to himself when the next song starts. He doesn’t know it yet but his legs are curled against his chest. He’s rocking too; he must look like a madman. Over

and over

and over

and over-

“Sir, are you alright?”

It was inevitable, wasn’t it?

Steve freaks. Suddenly, Bucky is there, ripping the usher’s hand off his shoulder (they were brave for trying). “Steve, stop!” He screams. Steve doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think he can. It’s not in his nature to stop.

_So why haven’t you been able to move?_

On the street, light bombards him. Flashes explode in the periphery and suddenly, a bomb is going off. He dives for the wall, cowering behind his hands. He can’t think. He just needs to hide. He can’t keep fa-

-lling.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. I can’t. I can’t breathe- “

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers next to Steve’s ear, angelically quiet. ‘It’s okay.” Steve cowers, feeling the wreckage fall on him, crushing him underneath its weight. “Come on, Steve, get up,” Bucky tries, still not touching him. Hand slamming against the wall, Steve heaves himself upwards, balancing on paralytic legs through sheer willpower.

_Steve used to be better than this._

“That’s good. That’s so good. Okay, come on. We’re gonna get you home.” Without Bucky there to _really_ help him, he doesn’t think he can. He can’t trust his own legs.

“I can’t,” Steve chokes, a heart-wrenching sob rising in his throat.

“Yes, you can.”

“You’re not even real,” he whispers desperately.

“Whether I am or am not real right now really doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does!” Steve screams, throwing himself away from the wall. His legs can’t hold him up and he falls

backwards, further and further until he trips on the edge of the curb. He doesn’t fall, not yet, but it gives him an idea.

“You’re not real,” he reiterates. “If you were, you’d be able to stop me.” Steve smiles as he takes the final step backwards, arm outstretched for Bucky to grab. To his right, a car approaches, lights dazzling. The moment passes in a flash of light and terror and all he can think is

_At least I can’t miss him anymore._

_I was his last sight and he is mine._

There’s a poetry to that.


End file.
